


you've been my dream since i was 15

by chivasintead1



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Mild Language, Semi-explicit Sexual Scene, underage!Harry drinking, underage!Harry thinking about Nick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 11:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2545163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chivasintead1/pseuds/chivasintead1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've wanted you since I was 15 and wanking to your voice on the radio."</p><p>(Or: Harry likes Nick and Nick likes Harry. They meet, and it probably shouldn't be as easy as it is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've been my dream since i was 15

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tilda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/gifts).



> Firstly, please, for the love of everything that is sacred, do not link this to anyone mentioned in this fic. I do not know them, this is purely fiction, and no offense is intended.
> 
> Secondly, this is for the lovely tilda, who requested: "Young Harry watching Nick on t4 etc and then meeting him. Both are starstruck." I do hope this isn't too far from what you wanted, and that you enjoy it! You gave two other delightful prompts that I would've liked to get to, but time just got away from me. #storyofmylife
> 
> Lastly, I tried to stick to canon as much as possible in terms of when things happened for Nick and Harry, but time may have went a bit wobbly. Just go with it? 
> 
> C x

It’s nearing midnight, and Harry had to hastily plug his earphones in half an hour ago when he heard his mum coming upstairs, but he doesn’t want to turn off the radio just yet. The song playing is quite slow, the beat hard and thrumming right through him.

He’s been listening to the show for ages now. And while he does genuinely love the music, in all honesty, he just really, _really_  likes Grimmy’s voice. He’s fallen asleep to it more than a few times, and it’s maybe possibly seeped into his thoughts while he’s had a hand in his pants, teeth clamped around a pillow to keep quiet in the dark.

He’s in pretty much the same situation now, timing the movements of his hand to the beat of the song. It starts to fade out, guitar growing distorted as the singer holds a long note, and then Grimmy cuts in. “Love that record. So good that.”

Harry has to tighten his hand.

There’s been a lot of talk tonight of them all still nursing hangovers, so Grimmy’s voice is quite rough, and Harry can’t get enough. He hangs on every word, skin getting hotter and his breathing quicker. It’s a problem. He’s so infatuated with that voice, in fact, that he’s actually avoiding looking up what Grimmy looks like.

He’s probably being ridiculous, but he likes the thrill of listening to the show alone, in his room, in the dark. He doesn’t want to spoil it, because he’s well aware that people sometimes look completely different to what you'd imagine based on what they sound like. His own voice is deep, and he constantly gets told off for talking too slow, but he has what Gem calls a “baby face”, not helped by his curly hair and dimples. So, yeah, he likes the Grimmy in his head, who’s pretty much faceless, with dark hair and expressive hands. (Because everyone who talks as much as Grimmy does, no doubt waves their hands around at the same time.)

He’s laughing when Harry finally comes, lip bitten raw and hand a sticky mess. There’s still 10 minutes left of the show, but Harry can’t keep his eyes open much longer. He hastily wipes his hand off on his sheet – disgusting, but he’s a teenage boy, it’s a rule – and pulls his earphones out, letting them drop off the side of his bed.

He falls asleep to the faint, tinny echo of a rap song.

 

 

It’s somewhat of a shock, then, when he hears that voice filter through into the kitchen as he’s pushing soggy cereal around a bowl at 7:50am on a Tuesday morning the following week. His spoon clatters on the counter and he knocks his chair into the back of Gemma’s legs in his mad scramble to the lounge.

He wonders if Mum has the radio on, and if for some reason Grimmy’s covering the Breakfast show this week. But it’s the TV that’s on, and there’s a man and a woman sitting on a purple couch, lit from behind by a giant E4 sign. He doesn’t quite connect the voice and the picture, until the camera zooms in on the man and he starts laughing and— Holy shit.

Grimmy is gorgeous.

He’s wearing a checked shirt open over a grey t-shirt, and his hair is a mess of curls that fall forward onto his forehead. He keeps running his hand through his fringe, and Harry watches the bracelets on his wrist clink forward and back as he does so. His laugh is as loud and un-self-conscious as it is on the radio, but now Harry can see that it tapers off into a smirk every time.

He is exactly Harry’s type.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, hovering just inside the room with his hands gripping a sofa cushion, but it’s long enough that Gemma has to throw his bag against his back and yell at him to hurry up or they’ll be late. He reluctantly tears his eyes away just as the screen fades from Nick looking directly at the camera to a music video.

And if he spends the first 15 minutes of his period 1 IT lesson looking at Grimmy on Google images, then no-one need know.

 

 *

“Grimmy! It’s starting, hurry up with the wine!”

Nick rolls his eyes, but he quickly tucks two glasses under his arm, grabs the wine and a massive bag of Tesco’s salt and vinegar sticks. He tosses the crisps in the direction of Aimee’s head, but places the wine and glasses down on the coffee table just as Dermot tells them where their Saturday night starts.

Yeah, this is as exciting as Nick’s life gets now. He’s drinking fairly cheap - and probably disgusting - wine with his best friend and watching a bunch of absolute strangers strangle Top 40 hits on ITV.

“Anyone fit this year, then?” Grimmy never holds out hope that he’ll bear witness to the next big thing in music on these shows, but he certainly won’t complain about watching buff guys wail about how in love they are whilst clad in tight suits.

“There’s an Italian you’ll probably like. Some jailbait, and your perfect guy.”

“Really?” Nick’s pouring his wine, and if it’s almost to the brim then that’s completely fine because he’s in his own house. “I’m always up for my perfect guy.”

Aimee snorts. “Yeah. His name is Wagner.”

Nick almost spits out his wine. “ _Wagner?_ Oh yeah, sounds right up my street. Probably dead indie with a beard.”

It turns out, that Wagner is both very old and very creepy. His performance makes Nick want to destroy every copy of _She Bangs_ in the world, and bleach his eyes and ears out twice. He’s obsessed.

“Oh my god! That might have been one of the best things I’ve ever seen. God that was _awful!_ ” Nick tips up the last of his third glass of wine as Aimee cackles, face still hidden in a cushion. “Definitely the one for me, that.”

“Told you!” Aimee’s actually crying with laughter, and Nick snorts inelegantly as he splashes more wine into their glasses. His coffee table is an absolute tip, with empty bottles and crisp packets and the wasabi peas Aimee unearthed from a cupboard that most likely went out of date in 2005. It’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow to be cleaned up, so he wipes at the corner to make space for his feet and leans back.

“Woah.” Nick totally doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but his screen is suddenly full of teenage boy – and _that’s_ a sentence he doesn’t say too often. Up next apparently, is a five-piece boy band, clearly straight out of school, that’s been assembled by Simon himself.

“Oh my god, they’re adorable!” Aimee’s practically cooing, and Nick would laugh at her if he could take his eyes off the one with curly hair. He’s _Harry,_ he’s _sixteen_ and he’s _from Cheshire._ He’s going to be a problem.

It’s completely inappropriate and probably illegal and something Nick is not going to tell anyone ever. And, shitting hell, they’re singing now and they’re not great but girls are going to _love_ them and Harry’s in a leather jacket and getting really into it and—

“Nicholas Grimshaw!”

Nick turns round quick enough that wine sloshes over onto his fingers, but he doesn’t put the glass down because Aimee’s looking at him like she’s a shark that’s smelled blood.

“What?” He’s caught out, he knows it, but he’ll play ignorant until his dying breath.

“Don’t _what_ me. You’ve already picked out the one you fancy, haven’t you? I see you, playing with your hair!”

Nick stops doing exactly that and huffs, finally putting the glass down. Then he wipes his hand on Aimee’s leggings, because he’s mature like that.

“I don’t _fancy_ any of them. They’re, like, 12!” His voice has gone high pitched though, and he’s probably blushing and oh god, this is the worst moment of his life.

“You so do! Let me guess.” She turns back to the telly, putting a hand under her chin and studying the screen as intently as she does Heat magazine when Nick’s dying her hair. “Well, it’s definitely not the blonde one. Or him with the— Lord, are those culottes? Oh my. It could be him; he’ll be hot when he’s older, look at that jawline!”

Nick is actually going to die.

“OH! OH! Yes, that one. Him with the curly hair and the jacket. I’m right, aren’t I?” He doesn’t even have to reply to that before she’s laughing hysterically. “Oh, Grim! He is adorable, I’ll give you that.”

“He’s not adorable. And I don’t fancy him.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t!” He doesn’t. Absolutely not. He just, he can recognise when someone’s good looking, that’s all. And he’s 16! Nick is 26. _Just,_ mind, but still. Fancying someone ten years his junior – that’s in a boy band, no less – is not something Nick needs in his life right now.

Aimee ribs him until they finally leave the stage, and then doesn’t bring it up again. Nick tries not to be too grateful, and absolutely does not feel guilty that he searches twitter for ‘ _Harry x factor'_ after she goes to bed.

 

 

Nick doesn’t insist on things very often, but he’s insisting now and Gary is having none of it. Surely changing a meeting time by an hour shouldn’t cause this much hassle. And he tells Gary as much, which just gets him an unimpressed eyebrow raise.

“Not usually. But when the reason for changing a team meeting is so that you can come in and meet that boy band off X Factor? Yes.”

Okay. Put like that, it sounds ridiculous. But Nick’s thought this through, and it really does benefit everyone. “No, look, if we change it to 4, then we can get it done with before tea and there’s still plenty of time before the show to get tracks sorted and stuff. Sarah can go home straight after, James doesn’t have to come in ridiculously early and I’ll even have time to finally get those emails replied to so you don’t have to keep dodging Ben’s calls about them. Please, Gary?”

He doesn’t expect it to work - especially because Gary’s one of the few people he’s maybe mentioned his slight One Direction obsession to - but he just rolls his eyes and sighs the sigh of a man very much put upon by his co-worker. “Fine. But you’re in charge of telling everyone else. And I’m telling Scott you made me do this just so you can perve on them through the window, so he can make fun of you forever.”

Nick manfully resists pumping his fist. “Done.”

 

 

In the end, he ends up stuck in traffic while Scott’s interview with Simon and the band goes out. He’s fuming, because he’s had the worst morning ever and he didn’t even get the chance to accidentally on purpose walk into Harry Styles and see if he’s as handsome in real life. Instead, he’s in a cab that smells of ridiculously strong vanilla air freshener and listening to a deep, slow voice tell a pointless story that he could’ve heard in real life if London hadn’t decided today was the day to wage a war against him and his unfortunate crush on a teenager.

By the time he actually arrives, his meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago and he’s had six texts off of Gary that range from “hahahahaha I saw them you didn’t” to “get your arse here now”. He very casually asks Joe at reception if Simon Cowell is still in the building, but he shakes his head and tells him that he left five minutes ago “with that band of his”.

Nick does not sulk the rest of the day, no matter what Gary says.

* 

 

Harry is nervous. Never mind that they’re at Radio 1, getting a tour of the office before they play What Makes You Beautiful for the first time on Scott Mills’ show, but they’re currently standing next to what their escort Claire had identified as “the night time crew’s corner”. There’s a desk by the window with loads of photo frames, numerous mugs and pens and post it notes strewn all over it, and a worn denim jacket draped over the swivel chair.

It’s Nick Grimshaw’s desk. And there’s steam coming from one of the mugs and he’s clearly here already and, oh god, Harry’s nervous. He might finally get to meet the guy he’s fancied since he was 15 and seriously getting into music, huddled under his duvet at night with the radio on and a hand—

This is absolutely not the time for that train of thought.

Zayn wraps an arm around his shoulder, knocking their bodies together. “You alright?”

Harry nods, running his hands through his hair in an attempt to tame it. He straightens his blazer, wipes his hands on his troupers and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, fine, just, you know, nervous about the song and stuff.” Zayn quirks a smile, but cuts his eyes over to that desk by the window. “Sure.” His tone drips sarcasm, and he laughs before clapping Harry on the back hard enough that he has to grab on to the nearest chair to avoid tripping forward over his own feet.

Harry huffs and regrets ever mentioning Grimmy’s name, back when all five of them had squished together on the couches in his step-dad’s bungalow with a box of Coronas and a plan to get to know one another. There was probably a more elegant way to come out to the lads, but he supposed saying “I used to wank to Nick Grimshaw’s voice on the radio” in response to which celebrity he fancied was blunt enough that they got the message.

He regains his balance and punches Zayn’s arm, and then they’re moving along the corridor towards Scott’s studio. Harry holds his breath every time he they pass a window or round a corner, but he never sees Grimmy, and he tries not to feel too disappointed. It passes quickly, because soon they’re all crowded around a mic and listening to their song being played live on national radio.

It’s incredible.

They have an impromptu group hug after the interview is over, get their picture taken with Scott, and then they’re being shuttled out and on to the next stop. They pass through the office again, and Harry can’t help but look over, but the desk is still empty. There’s a folder on the desk now, the mug having been moved over to make room for it, but no sign of Grimmy. He doesn’t dwell, because he can see the crowds of girls waiting outside for them through the window and the rest of their day is incredibly busy; there’s no time to mope over not meeting a DJ that probably doesn’t even know who you are.

 

 

The Roundhouse is London is quite intimidating. Harry has to pinch himself quite a few times during sound check for the iTunes festival, because it’s crazy to think that his band is about to perform here. They’ve played at the VMAs, and done quite a few shows in America now, but there’s something really special about playing in London. Especially in such an iconic venue.

There are photos of past performances on the walls of the corridors backstage, and Niall keeps pointing out incredibly famous people with this expression of wonder on his face. Harry’s fairly certain it’s mirrored on his own, and he can’t help but grin widely and throw his arms around Liam and Louis.

“Can you believe this? We’re about to play at the Roundhouse! This is mad.”

Liam laughs. “I know, mate. Unbelievable.”

Louis tucks his arm around Harry’s waist. “What do you reckon we can pinch from the green room? We need a souvenir, ‘cause this is pretty wicked.” Niall and Zayn voice their agreement and Liam huffs out an exasperated laugh.

Their green room isn’t that exciting, but it still makes Harry’s skin buzz with excitement. It’s about the size of their room at the X Factor house, and there are two black leather sofas on either side of a coffee table that’s covered in Dairy Milks, cans of coke and bottles of water, as well as bags of crisps and a bag of roasted peanuts that Niall claims almost immediately.

They have about 20 minutes to chill out, and then there are hair and make-up people crowding in, a lovely woman called Caroline who wheels in a rail of clothes that Zayn makes a beeline for, and a good looking guy with a headset and clipboard that hovers by the door.

“You guys all right?” Harry nods, smiling wide enough that he knows his dimples are showing and mentally fist bumps when it earns him a blush. “Before you’re on stage, there’s a quick interview with Nick and Annie, then you’re on. Two hour time limit, but your set list will be taped to the ground if there’s any confusion there.”

Harry doesn’t take in the latter half of that, mind stuck on “Nick and Annie”. Surely it’s not— “Um. Sorry, who’s interviewing us?”

The guy frowns, looking down at his clipboard for a second before meeting Harry’s eyes. “Oh. Were you not...? It was definitely cleared with your management. Nick Grimshaw and Annie Mac off Radio 1, they’re hosting tonight, and they’re gonna ask you guys some questions beforehand.”

Harry has to take a deep breath, and Zayn’s suddenly laughing hysterically. Headset guy looks confused for a second, before his attention is diverted from Harry by one of the label reps that appear at their performances now. And he— Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

Surely management need to run things like this by them now? He— He needs to change.

He whips off his t-shirt, hands frantic as he flips through jacket after jacket. And Zayn’s still bloody laughing. “Shut up.” The words lack heat, because he’s trying not to laugh himself, but Harry tries his best to frown at Zayn anyway as he hauls out possible options.

There’s plenty of good natured mocking as they get ready, but thankfully the boys know to keep the teasing to a minimum the nearer they get to interview time. Harry’s palms are sweating, he probably put too much aftershave on, and he brushed his teeth hard enough that his gums hurt. But he’s about to meet Grimmy. Actually about to meet Grimmy in real life and all he can focus on is making sure he doesn’t horrifically embarrass himself on live telly.

He’s kept it together in front of Katy Perry, managed to mumble out a hello to Rihanna, and he sang in front of Cheryl Cole for three whole months. He can control himself in front of Nick Grimshaw.

 

 

Okay. So maybe ‘control himself’ was a bit strong. He practically pounces on the seat nearest Grimmy – “just Nick’s fine” –, and leans forward every single time he opens his mouth. His answers are spoken directly to Nick, even if it was Annie who asked the question, and he probably has giant red hearts protruding from his eyes every time Nick laughs at something he says.

The interview is as chaotic as it always is with the five of them fighting over each other to answer, but Harry manages to tune a lot of it out and keep eye contact with Nick. He doesn’t think he’s imagining the teasing lilt to a lot of the questions directed at him, and he knows Nick catches him smirking when Annie jokes about taking his trousers off.

He’s also very aware of Nick’s presence side of stage the entire time they’re performing. And if he sticks to the right side more than he usually would, then everyone is kind enough not to mention it. He puts everything in to it, and he gets this weird twisting in his stomach when he looks over in Nick’s direction during ‘Gotta Be You’ and finds him singing along. He catches Harry looking, and smiles, running a hand through his hair.

They don’t get to talk afterwards, but Harry isn’t disappointed. They played a pretty kick ass show, and Nick totally flirted back. He’s on top of the world right now.

 

* 

Nick isn’t freaking out.

He’s 100% is not freaking out. Harry Styles coming in to see him during his show is a completely normal thing and not something he needs to freak out about. Nope. Not at all.

Gary’s laughing at him. Nick genuinely didn’t think Harry would actually accept his oh-so-casual offer to come visit the studio, but he did, and now he’s on his way and Nick’s frantically throwing his coffee cup into the bin and wishing he’d changed before he left the flat. He nips into the loo to fix his hair, chuck three Smints in his mouth and check his t-shirt for any stains that might be miso soup or coffee or toothpaste.

He gets a text when he gets back into the studio, literally a minute before he starts his first link.

_I’m downstairs. Do I just come up, or...?_

Nick chucks his phone at Gary and points to the door. “Can you— Goooood evening Great Britain. Hope you are all well.” He’s out of breath a little, and Gary gives him an unimpressed look but hauls open the main door and leaves the room anyway.

He lines up two tracks, complains a little about being left alone in the studio, and then Harry’s walking through the door. He looks good. His hair is swept to the side, he’s wearing a grey t-shirt and skinny jeans that cling and he is so ridiculously good looking. Nick waves a little, smiles a lot, and watches as Harry drops into one of the chairs along the back wall, legs splaying open automatically.

When he’s finished his link, he pushes his mic away and moves around the desk. “Hey popstar.” His voice has gone low, like it always does when he’s talking to someone he fancies, and he doesn’t even have to look at Gary to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“Hiya.” Harry digs his wallet and phone out, drops them on to another chair, and then he’s standing up, stepping forward and hugging Nick.

Nick takes a second to remember and move his arms, but then he’s hugging back, squeezing a little too tightly and taking a deep breath before he can think it through. Harry smells like Daz washing powder and coffee and his head is tucked into Nick’s neck.

It’s probably too intimate for a hug between people that have only met a few times, texted back and forth in between then, and Nick tries not to linger on the thought that Harry fits really well against him. It lasts a little too long, but when they pull away it isn’t awkward.

Nick asks if Harry wants to be on air, and Harry rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Um. No? I just— I’m alright to just sit and we can chat like, between songs and stuff. If that’s okay?”

Fuck. Nick’s really in trouble.

“That’s fine, yeah. We can give you the track list and you can pick a song if you like.” God, he’s definitely smoother than this normally.

“Wicked.”

And then they’re just looking at each other. It’s a bit like when Nick met Noel Gallagher for the first time; he can’t stop smiling and playing with his hair and just staring. Except— He definitely didn’t want to know what Noel Gallagher’s lips tasted like, or what his hands would look like running down Nick’s chest. Or what he looks like underneath his shirt, preferably with Nick’s bed sheets at his back.

Gary clears his throat. Pointedly. Like it’s not the first time he’s done so, and when Nick looks over at him, he’s frantically gesturing at the mic and, oh yeah, he’s at work. Jesus.

“Um. I’ve gotta go be on the radio now.”

Harry laughs, and follows him over, perches against the desk behind him and Nick hasn’t felt this nervous in a long time.

 

 

The show goes surprisingly well. Harry has excellent taste in music, and Nick plays three songs for him all together. But he’s also a ridiculous child. He pulls the mic away from Nick whilst he’s in the middle of sentence; flicks water at him from across the desk as he’s talking to a caller about Jay Z; makes jokes that have Nick laughing loudly enough that Gary tells him off more than once, and takes over Nick’s computer without a word.

He’s currently finishing Nick’s bag of crisps. Gary gave up on controlling them about half an hour ago, but he’s smiling so Nick knows he isn’t really mad. (It probably has something to do with the fact that Nick can’t help but look at Harry so damn fondly, although Nick’s trying not to think about that too much.)

The thing is: they could be great friends. There are a lot of common interests, their sense of humour is so in sync, and Nick can see how well Harry would gel with pretty much everyone else Nick knows. There’s something so effortlessly charming about him. He’s ridiculously polite and takes an absolute age to finish a story – that almost always ends on a bit of an anti-climax – and, Christ, Nick really likes him.

But then there’s the huge part of Nick that doesn’t just want a friend. And the fact that Harry’s fresh off the release of his band’s debut album, about to take over the world, and literally one of the most fancied popstars in the entire country.

The universe really hates Nick, sometimes.

He tries not to dwell, and doesn’t even register the time until he’s lining up the last song. He thanks everyone for listening, gets everyone – even Harry, although he’s careful not to mention him by name – to yell out a goodbye, before fading all the mics down. Gary claps him on the shoulder, Nick hands over his notes like always, and then they’re done.

Harry had moved back over to the back wall during the last feature, sprawling over two chairs with his legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles. He looks up when Nick tucks his chair back under the desk, smiling enough that his dimples are out in force.

“That was a great show.”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Thanks. You weren’t distracting at all.”

“Hey.” The word is drawn out, and Nick has to look away from Harry’s mouth as he pouts exaggeratedly. “I was helping. You know, keeping you on your toes and alert for the listeners.”

“Oh, right, obviously. I don’t know how I’ve managed without you up until now.”

“Eh, you did alright...”

Nick slaps him lightly on the arm, absolutely not cataloguing how warm the skin there feels against his hand, because he isn’t in a Jane Austen novel. “Dickhead. Let’s go, I’m starving.”

“Me too. There’s this ace place on Waterloo road that might still be open. I could murder a burger.”

Nick’s steps falter a little. “You— Uh, yeah, sure, burgers. Sick.” It takes everything in Nick not to slap himself in the face. He hadn’t expected Harry to think that was an invitation to go for food together, but he supposes it makes sense. After all, Harry did come all the way into town to see him at work. The least Nick can do is treat him to a really late tea.

 

 

Burgers on Waterloo road turns into drinks in a hole-in-the-wall pub by the station, which then turns into them stumbling out of the 24 hour Sainsbury’s on the corner of Nick’s street, a bag of wine bottles clinking between them.

He isn’t quite sure what time it is. All he knows is that Harry’s jokes are terrible, he really likes making him laugh, he’s fairly buzzed, and his jacket looks much better draped over Harry’s shoulders than it does his own.

They drink the white wine Nick had bought - and he’d almost thrown up his burger at the checkout, laughing hysterically as Harry'd slunk out in case they ID'd him – on his couch, tucked into opposite corners with their legs overlapping between them. He tries not to get too attached to the picture Harry makes, here in his house, smiling and commenting on all the random crap Nick keeps propped up on shelves and pinned precariously on the walls.

He also tries not to lace every sentence with innuendo, but it’s becoming ridiculous. Harry’s a shameless flirt and it’s in Nick’s nature to give back as good as he gets. Especially when he’s been drinking. And so it shouldn’t be so surprising when Harry finally dumps his glass on the table and leans forward to press his mouth to Nick’s.

But it is.

* 

 

Harry’s imagined kissing Nick a lot, especially tonight, and the real thing is really, really fucking excellent. He’s drunk enough to be bolder than usual, but not drunk enough to get sloppy. And so he’s careful, tilting his head just enough that he can ease Nick’s mouth open and taste him, while sliding his hand slowly up the warm soft skin of Nick’s arm.

He’s about to tangle his fingers in Nick’s hair when he feels a hand against his chest, pushing him back from Nick’s mouth and— No. No, that’s not right.

“What are you—?”

“Stop, Harry, this... This is a bad idea.”

“It’s really, really not.” Harry doesn’t get the chance to lean in very far before Nick’s pushing him back again and standing up, getting off the couch and moving away from Harry. He starts pacing, and Harry runs both hands through his hair before straightening up, bringing his legs down and resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry.”

Harry’s looking up at Nick, and so he sees Nick sucks in a sharp breath, eyebrows furrowing together, even though Nick won’t look at him. “You’re sorry? I should be the one apologising. You’re 17!”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to frown. “So?”

Nick’s incredulous “So?!” has Harry standing up too. “So we can’t do this. You’re a teenager, Harry, and I’m— I’m really not.”

It doesn’t help the situation that Harry crosses his arms and actually pouts. “So, what, I’m too young and couldn’t possibly be mature enough to make decisions on who I do and don’t want to get off with? I can’t possibly be mature enough to—”

“That's not-- You’re fucking amazing.”

Nick looks like that maybe wasn’t what he had planned on interrupting with, and it really wasn’t what Harry was expecting, but it has the desired effect. Harry stops short and lets his arms drop to rest at his sides. He bites his lip, crushing down the flicker of hope as he watches Nick’s face cycle through a whole range of emotions before settling on resigned.

“I mean, you’re— God. Of course you’re mature enough to decide that. It’s not that, and it’s not that _I_ — Fuck. We can’t do this because I’m 27, Harry, and you’re 17. I might actually have a panic attack if I think too hard about what that looks like. And I’m supposed to know better than to start fucking falling for a teenager. God, Harry, you’re about to go on tour in America and every woman in the world would be crazy not to fancy you and they’d hate me and can you please stop me anytime soon?”

Harry’s smiling properly now, and he moves forward to lightly curl his hands around Nick’s elbows, catching his gaze and holding it. “Breathe.” Nick does, and his mouth quirks in what Harry imagines would be a smile if Nick didn’t force it down. He sighs, pressing his fingers more firmly against Nick’s skin. “Do you really think the age difference is a big deal?”

“What?”

“Fuck what anyone else might say. Nine years. Do you think that’s too big of a deal?”

Harry watches as Nick swallows hard. “No.”

“Okay. Neither do I. And I don’t want all the women in the world, Nick, I want you.”

Nick doesn’t say anything. And Harry’s finds it hard to breathe for a second. “And I think you want me too?” He doesn't mean for it to be a question, and it's slightly more pleading that Harry would’ve preferred, He blames the wine, but he doesn’t have time to regret asking because Nick’s pupils dilate and then he's shaking Harry's arms loose so that he can place his own hands on Harry’s hips.

“I do. God, I do but—” He sighs and looks at the floor. “We could do this, and it’d be great, but I wouldn’t want just, just the once. I— I’d want...”

He trails off and Harry’s pulse is racing. He pulls Nick in close enough that their chests are practically touching. "I want that too. I don’t just want tonight, Nick. Fuck, I’ve wanted you since I was 15 and wanking to your voice on the radio.”

Nick chokes. His hands squeeze Harry’s hips and his face flushes. He’s so hot Harry doesn’t know how he got so lucky.

“You...” He has to clear his throat and Harry’s smug now. He did that. “Right. That’s... Wow. Okay.”

“I’ve wanted this for a long time and it’d be more than great, Nick. I couldn’t give a toss about what anyone says because there’s always going to be years between us. Even if we wait five years to do this, that gap will still be there and we’ll have just wasted five years where we could have been having fucking amazing sex. I know this is a good idea, Nick. Please.”

For one long, terrifying second, Harry thinks Nick’s still going to refuse; that he’s going to pull away and ask Harry to leave. But then he’s shaking his head, sliding his hands up Harry’s chest to press against the sides of his face and say:

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Styles.”

*

 

Nick wakes up when there’s an almighty clatter outside his bedroom window. He stirs, mind still foggy from sleep and wine, and groans when he hears the mechanical whirring of the bloody bin men.

He burrows back into the pillow, and it’s then he registers the legs tangled with his own, the dark hair tickling the side of his face and the warm stomach under his palm. He cracks open his eyes, gaze landing on the smooth expanse of Harry’s bare back.

Last night floods back in flashes of skin, warm mouths, alcohol and the feeling of Harry’s hair between his hands as he’d swallowed Nick down. There’s a crick in his neck, and he knows his knees are going to protest loudly when he stands up, but right now he’s warm and comfortable and has an arm full of a sleeping, naked popstar.

It might just be the best morning he’s had in a while.

 

 

Nick wakes again a few hours later, when the sun in streaming in through the curtain that’s stuck behind the radiator and only half shut. Lips are pressing kisses against the skin on his neck, and he groans his appreciation, tilting his head to give Harry more skin to reach.

There’s nothing he needs to do today until the show at night, but Harry’s band are getting pretty huge now, so he figures he needs to wake up properly and see him off.

“Good morning.” God, is that his voice? Gary’s going to kill him.

There’s a sharp nip at his jawline, and then Harry’s face swims into view. His hair is ridiculous, and he’s wearing a smile so wide Nick feels his face respond in kind automatically.

“Hi.”

“What time is it?”

“Half 11, I think.”

“Right. Time to get up, then?”

Harry honest to God pouts. He shifts so that he’s straddling Nick, leans down to bite at his bottom lip. “Nope, more kissing first. And then you can make me a bacon sandwich.”

“Oh I can, can I?”

Harry hums against his mouth, but then they’re kissing properly, morning breath be damned. Nick doesn’t think he’ll tire of the way Harry kisses, deep and slow and with so much intensity it makes Nick’s stomach clench in a way that’s so, so good. His breath hitches when Nick scratches his nails against the skin on the back of his neck, and he twists his tongue when Nick brings his knees up, pressing their hips flush together, and moans into his mouth.

“God. Seriously, the death of me.” Nick puts just enough distance between their mouths that he can suck in a breath, and then they’re back together. This kiss is dirty and quick, and then Harry is breaking off and curling his palm around Nick’s wrist.

“Please, Nick.” He brings Nick’s hand down to his dick, and Nick doesn’t hesitate to wrap his fingers around him. They’re a tangle of lips and breathless kisses and it’s so warm in Nick’s room. Nick’s hips jerk up when Harry wraps his hand around him, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.

It’s so good, Harry’s hands are wide and calloused, and he’s devouring Nick’s mouth as they match each other stroke for stroke.

Nick needs something else, though, so he thinks fuck it and rolls them over. The blankets slide off to the side, but he doesn’t feel the loss because Harry’s wrapping his arms around Nick’s back and rolling his hips up, catching on quickly and oh so eagerly.

It’s fast and frantic and Nick’s babbling nonsense into Harry’s ear as they rut together, an embarrassing mix of “so good”, “faster”, and “god you’re amazing” but he doesn’t have the brain capacity right now to care. Harry’s loud, and he’s gasping and groaning and scratching ragged nails down Nick’s back as he tugs at himself and comes over Nick’s stomach with a shout.

His face goes slack and Nick can’t take his eyes off him. He keeps his hips moving, impatient now, but before he can move to sort himself out Harry’s reaching for him, his own come slicking the way as he twists and tugs on Nick’s dick perfectly. It’s another minute, max, before Nick’s coming too, biting down on Harry’s shoulder hard enough to bruise.

He tilts to the side and keeps most of his weight off Harry as he tries to catch his breath. Harry wipes his hand on Nick’s sheet; which is disgusting and not happening again because these are John Lewis’ finest and Nick would definitely say that out loud if he wasn’t still panting wetly against the skin of Harry’s neck.

Harry starts running his fingers up and down Nick’s spine and it’s wonderful enough that he feels his eyes start to droop. But before he can actually fall back asleep, Harry twists a hand in his hair and tugs him up.

The kiss is soft and doesn’t last long because they’re both smiling like idiots. Nick pushes himself up – who needs weight training at the gym when you can have athletic sex with a popstar – and lets his eyes scan over Harry’s face, flushed and happy, dimples out in full force.

“Good morning.”

Harry laughs. “You’re such a dork.”

Nick hmms. There’s a red mark already blooming on Harry’s left shoulder, and Nick wants to fit his mouth back over it and suck so that it’ll stay there for days. Instead, he drops another kiss to Harry’s mouth before sitting up and, yep, his knees are screaming in protest.

They click alarmingly when he stands. Harry snorts, but it lacks heat as he rakes his eyes over Nick’s body. He looks gorgeous, spread out over Nick’s sheets, and Nick would be worried about how quickly it’s gone from zero to full speed ahead, if he didn’t look so right there. They need to have a proper chat, establish what this is and where it’s going and all that terrifying stuff that Nick used to avoid like the plague. For now, though...

For now, he’s content to keep Harry naked and shag him senseless in every room of the flat. He tells Harry as such when he asks what he’s thinking, and that earns him a groan.

“God, that sounds like the best day ever”, Harry breathes, stumbling up and out of bed. He presses himself against Nick, nuzzling in and kissing him deep and wet and thoroughly. He pulls away too soon, though, and smirks. “But first, I was promised bacon.”

Nick watches Harry's bare arse the entire walk to the kitchen. And yep, it’s definitely the best morning he’s had in a long time.


End file.
